


This Stolen Moment

by Fire_Sign



Series: Phrack Fucking Fridays [4]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Mid 3x08, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8386528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Before she flies away, Phryne has a visit to make. [A mid 3x08 fic for Phrack Fucking Friday]





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's Phrack Fucking Friday once more, and this time it's an angstyish one.

Phryne travels back to Wardlow in silence, unable to shake the memory of the shooting star. Her mother would probably see some message in it, wishes and telescopes and fairy tales, but all Phryne can see is a future under English skies. She’ll come home--for Melbourne is home--but it seems so far away. Months, possibly; she’ll be lucky to be back before the autumn.

Mr. Butler rides with her, as does her father. Mac said her goodbyes at the church because, Phryne suspects, she’s not entirely certain she could avoid arguing with Henry Fisher and wants to spare Phryne that at least. Jack as well; he’d kissed her cheek and wished her a safe flight, his eyes so warm and loving she’d had to swallow against the lump in her throat. Her father had gone to say something, even opening his mouth, but seemed to realise there was nothing he could say that would change matters one iota.

Back home, she heads upstairs behind her father, retreats to her boudoir. She will miss it--this room, this home, this life she had carved for herself. She quietly undresses, slipping into a silk night gown and robe, and sits before her mirror to brush her hair. In the mirror is a woman who has lost, who has been denied her desires for the good of others.

Phryne does not like what she sees.

Her body is aware of her decision before her mind, and she exchanges her robe for a coat from her closet and slips on a pair of shoes, then heads downstairs once more. Mr. Butler sees her.

“Shall I make sure Lord Fisher is ready in the morning, miss?” he simply asks, and Phryne nods.

“Please, Mr. Butler. It will be an early morning if we want to get in as much time in the air as I’d like.”

Then she grabs her handbag and keys and slips outside to the Hispano. It’s a quick drive at this time of night, and soon enough she is pulled up outside a small cottage in Richmond. She’s been here once before, to drop off some paperwork, and driven past it once or twice when she has a particular curiosity to sate; she’s never been inside.

It is, perhaps, apt.

Motorcar parked, she draws her velvet coat closer and recognises the absurdity of what she has done and what she is about to do. It is no more ridiculous than the alternative though, and steps out of the car and onto the path to Jack’s front door.

Her knock is tentative, uncertain--she knows why she is here, but does not know what she intends to say. ‘Is it too late?’ crosses her mind, but it reminds her too much of what they have missed out on.

In the end, she says nothing. The door is opened by Jack as she has rarely seen him--suit jacket off, tie gone and collar loosened, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. He steps aside to let her in without a word, the door clicking shut almost silently behind her.

There is a stand-off, neither ready to make the first move when so much is at stake; he blinks at the same moment she shifts, and then tentative lips are on tentative lips. This is not something that can be undone. She wants to make a joke, to retreat to their teasing give-and-take, but the words catch in her throat.

He takes her hand and steps further into the house, a guide; she does not hesitate to follow him, and by the time they are at his bedroom door she is walking beside him. He tugs her closer before they step through the doorway, one hand cradling her head as he kisses her. Hungrier, more assertive.

More certain.

She pivots and drags him past the threshold with a firm grasp of his waistcoat. It is exactly the sort of bedroom she expects from him--simple, masculine, books piled on the bedside table, a painting on the far wall that is surprisingly modern. Not that she spends a great deal of time examining the finer points of the room; she’s too busy pulling him closer, letting her hands drop to the buttons on his waistcoat.

He pauses, placing his hands over hers to still them, and opens his mouth. She shakes her head, moving one hand to place a finger against his lips. If they don’t speak, they can pretend that it’s not real. If it was real, they would take the time to think. She doesn’t want to think. He smiles, capturing the reprimanding finger between his lips and sucking gently, his tongue whirling around it.

Her other hand is still held against his chest, her fingers slipping beneath layers of fabric to feel his heartbeat--steady, of course, but faster than she expected. She fumbles slightly as she works on his buttons: waistcoat, braces, shirt, all are undone and shed quickly. He takes longer, caressing the velvet of her coat with as much reverence as he would her skin; eventually his hands drifts to the buttons, slipping them through the holes almost absent-mindedly, most of his attention moved to the soft kisses he is pressing against her throat.

He pushes the coat off her shoulders, swallows hard when he sees what is beneath. She exhales softly, a silent laugh, and then he’s kissing her again. Or maybe she’s kissing him. It is a distinction she feels is important but can’t make.

Without words, they are left the mystery of the other’s body; they lie side-by-side and move slowly, Phryne touching him however it strikes her, him carefully methodical. It’s how they’ve always worked best. She hooks her leg over his hip, presses her warm heat against his cock. He stops her at the same moment she realises she had left her handbag (and the condom it contains) by the door, but he produces one from the table by his bed and she actually giggles. His answering smile is bright and open, and she laments every time she has missed it and will miss it while she’s gone.

More explorations, the only sounds sighs and moans and flesh meeting flesh, and then she rolls him onto his back and rides him, fingernails raking softly against his chest. He toys with her breast with one hand, her clit with the other, and smiles, lips parted slightly, when she guides him into a better position. They gain a frantic edge as they pursue the other’s climax, and for all their teasing and foreplay and year of moving slow, this part is easy. Quick. Before she knows it she is on the edge, breathing hard and desperate to bring him over with her; he’s always been obliging. They come near-simultaneously, and when it passes she is draped over him. They stay that way for some time, not yet ready to part but knowing it is time.

“I’ll come home,” she whispers, forehead pressed against his chest, as much for her benefit as his.

She will, even if she has to move heaven and earth to do it.

His hands stroke her back and she looks up just as he gives her a tiny, secretive smile that could mean any of a million things--that he knows, that he understands, that he would never presume, that he will be here when she does. She wishes, suddenly, that they had had more than this stolen night, so the invitation on the tip of her tongue could be voiced. Instead she kisses the corner of his mouth and sighs.

“I should…”

He nods. “Of course.”

She redresses quickly, casting a glance to the clock on the bedside table--it was not a long time, really, for her world to shift so completely. Jack joins her, selecting pyjamas and walking her to the door. Silence has fallen again; she can’t bring herself to say goodbye, and merely fixes the collar of his pyjama shirt and closes her eyes when he brushes her cheek in response.

She looks back as she reaches the Hispano, sees his silhouette standing in the doorway, and gives him a small wave before she drives away.


End file.
